


Temporal

by Motion_of_Rain



Series: Volumes of Life and Death [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Death, Fiction, Gen, Heaven and Hell, Limbo, Spirit World, Spirits, Supernatural - Freeform, Time Travel, i actually forgot these tags fml lol, kowalskiverse, psychopomp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:48:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28135698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Motion_of_Rain/pseuds/Motion_of_Rain
Summary: Lyudmilla is thirty-three and is forced to live another life she never expected to live. When she bears the heavyweight of her life being on thin ice, she only wants to make sure her breathing, living husband is okay and comforted. But when your own life is on the edge, finding means and ways to live and survive becomes second nature. Justice may only serve you with peace. So, where do we go when we die, and do our souls need help discovering that?
Relationships: Thomas & Lyudmilla
Series: Volumes of Life and Death [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2061234





	1. Chapter 1

### 1 - Bridge of Death

I don't know what to talk about. Life or death? Or are they the same thing? What do I talk about?

I always remember watching the news when my husband was busy. Something was still going on in the world; I almost always could never keep up when a rare species of animal, bird, or reptile gave birth to a litter of babies. Or when a corpse of a missing person is found. Or someone is found dead, and when somebody did not take another person's identity in life, but instead in death. The days I would spend very wary of my surroundings, were the days when North Yarmsworth was in the bloody grips of a killer.

It was half-past three in the afternoon one day when my friends visited. I lived in the vicarage along with Leslie, the curate. My husband. Across from the vicar. James and Sophie. It took my husband a little bit to find God and not much longer to find his calling. He often wished it was something spectacular. I think that there's nothing more spectacular than discovering who you are at a young age. He was twenty-two when he found God. While behind the counter at Tesco.

'You're the curate's wife. You should help ease the community,' One of my friends said when I told her my unease and terror about the situation. She's an older lady with greying hair and a lined face, one of the people who introduced themselves when we arrived.. 'People are losing their faith. You know you can do something about it.'

I'd nod in agreement. But, how'd have I done that? I would never know how I would do that. Not on a community scale. When my friends needed my help, I would do it. Cook for them and relax them in the front room. Keeping Leslie out of the way so we could have some girl time, so Leslie could keep up with his work or his family whoever needed him. Whatever needed him. A community had always been different to me. I loved being around people, but how could I turn people back to God when they were scared and thought he was responsible. 'It's difficult to ease people when they think God's left them.' I said.

She'd have raised her eyebrows at that statement. I see it. 'Well, you'd better get on with it, girl! You're new to this job. You'll figure it out.' She said. I would have. In my own time, I would have. I took a sip of tea slowly, only after I would've pushed my hair out of my face. It wasn't, and still isn't, that long. Bobbed just about my neck, and although naturally red, my curly hair was blonde.

'Have you seen the news?' One friend, Laura, asked. 'Another girl dead.' I looked down. News that I hated. Dire conversations, I remembered always. It was almost always the same. Nearly every month, I would hear the word: Dead. She's dead. A twenty-five year old. Dead. Emily, dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. It was always a painful thing when all you can do is try to ease something that is falling apart. A family unit in tatters. 'What do you all think of it?'

' _Horrific._ ' Mary, the older lady, snarled. Spoken with such venom, understandable poison. 'All young women who are just starting in life.' I remembered she wanted to spit on the floor in anger. But did not, in fear of cross-contamination and of being rude. Instead, she continued her tea. 'Whoever did this deserves the rest of their life in jail. There is no more justice in this world.'

Laura spoke up, and what she had said stuck with me. ' _Never has been towards women._ When a woman wants something and goes to get what she wants in life, unrestricted, she's insulted. Or she's called a _bitch_ -' I blinked at the curse, and Mary gasped out a soft eee. 'But when a man does it, he's respected.'

I never worked after I married Leslie. I stayed at home. Because I wanted to, I felt pleased. I wanted to be a housewife, and I still do. When I told people, they scoffed at the concept of a woman appeasing to a man. People did worry whether everything at home was okay. It was, and I was happy. I cooked and cleaned. If I had a different partner, I would have worked. Maybe I would have, but at home, I was delighted. I felt safe.

'It's why I'm doing my own thing without letting anyone bring me down.' Laura continues.

'And you're not worried about the killer?' Mary had asked Laura questioningly. 'You don't have a boyfriend to look after you?'

'I don't have a boyfriend; I can look after myself, Mary.' She snorted. Laura never changed at all. Strong, and she had to be when needed. Kind-hearted and compassionate, but tough as old leather when times changed.

'Lyudmila, what are your thoughts on this?' I blinked at her words. Nearly I drifted off into my mind. But I kept my wits.

'I don't think he- they - will stop anytime soon.' I said. That is one statement I wished was a lie. When terror is or was around you, it stays. You want it to go. Though it never did. And once terror has left for another village or city, the feeling it leaves stays. That memory sticks like glue.

'Unless _caught_.' Laura nodded. 'Unless they are smart enough to leave evidence.'

I kept quiet. The murder was something that kept me awake. I felt an ache in my chest and a twist in my stomach. The pain that kept to everyone the victim knew. That hole I did not want to feel again. I never lost anyone to murder. Instead, I could not have kids. Having biological children has always been a dream. Parenthood was on the list. But the doctors said to me 'No kids.', that I am unable. That left a bottomless pit, one that aches now.

'But I don't think there will be for a while. Whoever's doing this is probably someone smart.' Mary shifted. 'They have gotten away this far,'

'The perfect crimes, even get discovered.' Laura sniffed. 'Ian Brady and Myra Hindley ring a bell?' Laura raised her eyebrows, Mary only tuts. She believed that the police weren't doing their job and focused on false accusations. I saw the law differently.

Sometimes, I don't remember that day much. I guess I enjoyed it. To some degree, I did. I offered them if they'd wanted to stay for tea, then walk them back. Mary to her small home, Laura, to the train station. She lived in Leeds. They obliged. It was close to teatime, and I thought the company of others would cheer their mood — all our spirits. And keep our thoughts away from a lurking murderer.

In the kitchen, I often prepared healthy meals. British food was comforting; it helped when somebody ate all their food because the portions are just right. I dabbled in Irish food. I'm Irish, and I came from Sligo. That was home. North Yarmsworth became the extension of it. On today's menu were stuffed peppers, after a bowl of carrot and red lentil soup. Tomatoes, garlic, anchovies, all stuffed inside some peppers, preferably red. On the side, I cut some bread I'd made and stored the day before.

All of my friends loved my food and complemented it. When I looked at Laura, she was most appreciative. She wanted to be healthy, a better version of herself and saw my food as a good route into healthiness.

'You should write a recipe book!' Mary said, and I had remembered going red. Leslie grinned. It was something he'd say so much. He liked my cooking. Always.

'I'm afraid I'm not sure if I want to do that.' I said. That was an idea I had never been sure about; Nobody had suggested it to me before.

'Your choice, girl.' Mary again had raised her eyebrows. 'Food will unite this community. God would have wanted that. James would.'

I felt embarrassed by her words. I did. I needed time to think about what I thought would be better for people to have come to God again. It may have been obvious when I looked down.

'Maybe let her cook in her own time,' Leslie had said. He'd not said much all day. He had been busy, working on his sermons, meetings. And events not only in the church but to families, too. Christenings, baptisms, confirmations. Funerals, weddings, Fayres. On a broader scale, allowing film crews for period dramas. 'We've got a lot on, and she'd be happy to help out. When she can.' He'd smiled, having patted my hand. I smiled.

'I was only saying, Leslie!' After that, it fell quiet. It felt too awkward. I just wanted to leave the room and head upstairs. Maybe scream into my pillow.

'How are your grandkids?' I asked when the awkward silence grew too persistently uncomfortable. 'They are in...?' I never remember where they are in life. Are they in junior school? Primary? Infants, even? Are there even some in nursery? That fact won't ever stick with me. I think she responded with junior school, with all of them doing well. Their SATs were approaching and must've done them - to determine what set they'd go into in senior school. I remember I told her I'd have been there. Looking back, I should have.

We chatted for ages over dinner. Time flew by. And after tea, the girls and I found ourselves heading off. Mary home first before Laura. She lived near the church, across from the green. So, she'd come and go if she was popping to see her. And vice versa when Leslie or I visited.

'It's getting on a bit, isn't it?' Laura said. The sun was tipped just right, with golden hour arriving. It was summer, and after tea, so I think it had to have been around six o'clock. We walked along, which may have helped us keep warm. Sometimes it is relatively lukewarm in the summer; then the chill would kick in once it had discovered you'd stop moving. So, we kept walking until we reached Mary's. We stopped and chatted for a good while; the only heat we have been getting was the heat on our backs.

A long chat always seemed to be a good pick me up. It made everything go by quickly, and make a day seem less boring. Laura and I said our goodbyes to Mary, then headed to the station. We chatted about anything and everything: love, work, college, movies. It is always nice having a friend where you can both chat about anything with. It is definitely nice to have a friend you can call your own. Loneliness had always been an epidemic that could be solved by compassion, understanding, and companionship.

'It would have been nice if I stayed, but work is tonight, and I'm working till the early hours of the morning.' Laura explained.

'Thank you,' Her face crooked upwards into a smile, then we pulled each other into a hug. I wanted to hold her for a long time. It was like I knew something was coming. Or I just worried a lot about her. I'm ten years older than she is. She's twenty-three, got more to live for than I do. Or I thought. 'Put your feet up when you get home, yeah? Promise me.'

I nodded a little sheepishly at her statement. Evensong was on that night, and I planned on going to it. I knew a lot of people enjoyed it, and because our service was at six in the evening, every Wednesday. 'After evensong.' I told her. Evensong always lasted an hour and was prominently hymns. I always enjoyed the choral side of the church, though, I still needed to practice my singing. Though that was something, I never had time for.

'Okay. You relax after that. You never stop.' She smiled. We were on time, and the bus soon arrived. After one last, tight hug, she boarded the bus to leave. I waved her off.

When the bus departed, I decided to call for Leslie. Recently, he had been more than a little concerned about how I am, especially after the reports on the news. I was scared. Very scared. But I did not want him to worry about me at all. He used to fix up my clothes before I left the vicarage if it were untidy. Straighten my scarf or my collar. Pull down a cardigan or jumper if it rode down my back. Wiping my face if it had marks I had missed. I missed that. He... he said he'd be a couple of minutes in the car.

As I wandered in the general direction of where he should have come, I waited. He told me to stay and not to walk home until the streets were safe again. Well until the killer was behind bars. I stood, standing quietly by the bus stop, patiently waiting for my husband to arrive. Whenever I was resting and fancied treating myself, not wanting to drive (because I couldn't), I got the bus into Leeds to go into town for some coffee and a catch-up. I miss meeting my friends.

In the time I waited, I felt uneasy. And in the time I stayed with Laura, it had grown. But having been alone, it felt uncomfortably sickening.

As quick as it grew, I felt eased knowing my love was on his way. However, it did not stop the unpleasant feeling of being watched. When I looked around, I saw nobody like in the films.

Soon someone did join me. Next to me was a man, a scarf wrapping his face and a beanie on his head. I only saw his eyes because, when I asked if he was okay, he nodded. He told me he felt cold. And felt the cold quite prominently. It was summer, but I did not understand why he'd do it. However, I did not question it. I worried he'd have an underlying condition that made him cold.

We spoke. The man told me his name was James Williams, that he'd been visiting an old friend. I guess he felt my trust. Because I soon felt two sharp pains when he came to me. When I checked my sides, I saw blood. I looked back, and he was gone. He must have been disturbed by Leslie's car.

And as soon as I felt I had an idea who the killer was, I blacked out.


	2. To The Unknown Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here Lyudmilla is lost and wants to return home. When a kind stranger offers to do so, her interest is piqued. Even more so at the mention of her husband. But things aren't exactly what she expects when instead she meets a handsome stranger.

It was instantaneous when I woke up again. Like I hadn’t been injured in the first place. The fresh scent of grass kept me awake if you could have called it so.

When I sat, I looked around. There were areas of North Yarmsworth that were still relatively new. Leslie and I moved to North Yarmsworth in 2015. The year before that, as we’d pass through, we’d notice industries and big corporations. Roads leading in had been tarmacked over and looked, and felt, smoother. When I woke up, I was in the middle of nowhere, on a country road leading to somewhere. I felt a lump in my throat and pushed off the gravel and dirt on my face, clothes, too. However, that was a hasty effort. This place was utterly unfamiliar. I wish I could say exactly where I was. But I never could tell where I was - it was a beautiful, untouched part of the land.

I rose to my feet. I heard the indistinct chatter in the distance. I knew people must have been through here, and that I was close to people—hopefully, civilisation. With nervousness, a shudder, I walked. Never in my life had I been so determined to get somewhere, as I did then. I moved quickly, my hands nearby so I could have held onto things to step onto something, or over. Maybe Leslie was home. Perhaps I was in some imaginary state. Or some post-death form. Being with the people I love - well, _loved_ \- in life, in the final moments of brain activity. 

For a moment, I did stop. I yawned, and as I did so, I wrapped one arm around my stomach, the other on top, bent so I could yawn into my hand. When I wiped the water from my eyes, I did then notice my clothing. My clothes weren’t a priority. Getting home _was_. 

My heart sank briefly.

What I’d previously been wearing had vanished. A white, loose-fitting long-sleeve dress was gone. I looked down. When I saw dirt-covered clothes, which would have been a beautiful sleeveless blue shirt, and black and white skirt, I let out a gasp. I remember that I wanted to touch it. As I did so, I groaned as I had placed a hand on my side where James had injured it. Then and there, I sobbed. I fell to my knees and cried. All my life, I did the right thing. But to die and find yourself thrown, however, many decades into the past? At the time, I thought it was the worst thing to ever happen to anyone—a fate that was _worse_ than death itself. Maybe I was selfish in thinking that… I cried, and I cried. I wept. 

I had to compose myself. Maybe, if I thought clear enough, that it was an opportunity to do better. Be more than who I could have been. Let my soul radiate.

Again, I had gotten to my feet, and I pushed on. Then, I didn’t have time to stop. I thought everyone was there at the chattering voices. I thought it was a safe place.

‘Excuse me, are you okay?’

I jumped out of my skin when I heard the man’s voice. He laughed at my bewildered expression when I turned and looked at him; I was then startled. He was in fifties wear. A scruffy farmer’s clothing I couldn’t quite describe very well, but in a single word. _Outdoorsy._

<p>‘Oh, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He said and gave me a gentle smile. We then eyed each other up. He looked like a local farmer who lived near North Yarmsworth and supplied the village with fresh milk, eggs, meat, and other vegetables. His name was Graham. But the man in front of me introduced himself as Alfred Bates, who looked healthy and was tanned like Graham. Graham was, however, stockier, and often had his son by him. ‘I was comin’ through, and I thought I heard someone crying. Was that you?’

From that point, I think I just stared at him. I kept my eyes on him for a reasonable amount of time. He had a weak chin with a five o’clock shadow, with a soft jawline. I thought he looked very plain and average. However, I couldn’t vouch for his personality. I never knew the man. 

‘Can you talk?’ He pressed. I looked away. What could I have said? I was nervous enough as it was to talk. I was on the spot. That I was thrown into a completely new scenario was a different story altogether. It was disorienting, and I had to survive in a world where at first strangers know everything about you. Your date of birth - your life and who you are married to. I did not know what to expect once I arrived. Other than getting back to my loved ones, of course. 

He piped up once more. ‘Wait. Weren’t you in t’papers the other week?’ His Yorkshire accent was heavy. I understood him well enough to have deciphered what he’d said. My face paled. God, what’d I do, I remember thinking to myself. I chuckle at that memory.

‘Papers?’ I remember I struggled to get the word out. A simple word became a lump in my throat. ‘Why?’

‘There were sightings of you.’

‘I-I was missing?’

‘Yes,’ he said to me. Being missing had no memory in my mind. Who took me? Why was I kidnapped? I could not answer that. Never could. ‘I’m glad you’re safe, lass. Sure your’ usband would be glad to see you.’

Hearing the word husband piqued my interest. I wished it hadn’t. In a way, I wished it hadn’t. ‘Is… he okay?’ I wondered.

‘Oh, ’e will be, once he see’s you.’ He clapped his hands. I flinched. I looked at them, and he rubbed them together. ‘Remember the way t’vicarage?’ 

‘I… think if I’m in the village.’ He then walked me into the village. It took a little while. Can’t remember how long it took, exactly. It was the same—old buildings. Sandstone buildings were familiar to the village. I smartened myself up a little. The clothes I patted down! My surroundings had engrossed me! A home that wasn’t home. I could not distinctly remember what I wore. But I wore a dress. Dirty, worn clothing that I had to clean. I remember wanting to break down and cry. Scream out in distress. Nothing felt right. Of course, I had to be dreaming. At the time, it didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be.

‘Aye. You were last seen here wae yer ’usband all them years ago.’ Then the burning sensation of eyes on me came. Posters were up. I saw them on the walls or anything you could put them on. Telephone wires, windows, doors… All sorts.

‘Is that?’ People chatted among themselves. They must have recognised me.

‘It cannot be her.’

‘She’s _alive_?’ 

‘Wow, Father Thomas should hear about this!’

I looked down. I felt disgusting and on display. Looked upon like I was some hideous creature. Alfred took note of that and spoke to me. ‘They are dead pleased you’re safe, lass. It’d be in t’news. You being back.’

I kept my silence. I remember not wanting to talk. What seemed like ages had blurred into seconds. Everything seemed to go quick.

Alfred spoke to me the entire time. Dread, discomfort, and that sense of something wrong took my mind elsewhere. I knew that my husband had to be different. My fifties spouse, of course. Who he was, was a matter of seeing. Witnessing. Listening. But, I hold a lot of appreciation for Alfred. He did bring me comfort. 

‘Nearly there.’ My heart sank at those words. I couldn’t tell him I wasn’t ready. In hindsight, I wish I had said something. I braced myself. With my back as straight as I could carry it at the time, my hands were latched to my sides. But I couldn’t shake away the heaviness of my legs.

As we approached, a man was in the garden: busy pruning and deadheading roses. I loved roses, and remember they were beautiful pink roses. 

‘Ey up.’ Alfred had taken his hat off, in respect for the man. ‘Someone’s ‘ere to ‘ave a little chat wi’ ya.’ I was behind him. He ushered me forward. For a small while, I had looked at him, then to the man, who had begun standing up. 

‘Um…’ I gulped.

The man looked at me. There on his face, he had an expression someone would have at the sight of an old friend. Seeing someone who you’d think had the most beautiful eyes. I cannot tell whether it was love, shock, or horror, or a combination. It was something. 

His words were choked back, tears had brimmed behind his glasses. He then uttered a word in childlike wonder. Something that I owned.

‘ _Lyudmilla…?_ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this chapter took so long to publish sooner. I actually finished it last month and had forgotten I was posting it on here until now, ahah. Well, I hope you all like it and I'm working on chapter three.


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